The minute the words were out of my mouth, I could hardly believe I said them. As I held the automatic door open for the young mom with a baby in her arms and a toddler in the stroller, she thanked me. The button to activate the door wasn’t working.
“I remember being in your shoes!” I exclaimed. “But back in my day, there were no automatic door buttons.”
I SAID that. Like I was having babies before electricity and elevators were a thing.
The truth is, I really don’t remember many automatic doors. I think the whole handicapped access issue hadn’t really been addressed the way it is today. But instead of what I meant, it sounded like I birthed my babies at home by candlelight before going back to my fields and horse-drawn plow.
Which is an incredibly long-winded introduction to my point: We really have to figure out what to do with all the little old ladies.
Namely, myself and my friends in a few decades. We’re not there yet, but if I’m already saying “Back in my day,” it’s probably not too early to plan for my golden years.
Several months ago, I began joking with my friends about starting an “old lady commune” in our advanced age. Rather than worrying about the upkeep of our houses on our own—houses that will most likely seem too big for us individually—I said how fun it would be to have a group living arrangement. Always someone to take you to your doctor’s appointment. Always someone up for a game of cards. Your very own in-house book club. And happy hour? Well, that goes without saying.
We have it all planned. I’m lobbying for goat yoga on the weekends, although I have a feeling I’ll have to settle for yoga sans furry friends. Something about sanitation comes flying out of my friends’ mouths when we discuss it.
We’re planning on guest lecturers, mixologists, masseuses, energy healers (I think that’s just me again, voting for that last one). We’re hoping for a senior citizen commune of the cute male type down the street. Maybe we can have mixers, just like high school. (I’m seriously just kidding. Those were painful enough in high school.)
While shopping the other day, I ran across a chicken coop for sale. I texted my future roomies, asking if we should buy it now and store it in anticipation of our fresh eggs.
My friends joke that just about the time they are ready for the commune—whether because their spouse dies or they get divorced—I’ll probably meet someone and fall in love. I told them no worries about that. I’m really sold on this commune idea. And I think we should get some of those newfangled automatic push-button doors.
I hear they’re all the rage.